


Too Good to be True

by tejas



Series: Daniel's Musings [2]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot, Romance, Smarm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-10
Updated: 2010-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tejas/pseuds/tejas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniel muses on one of Jack's odder, if endearing, quirks. Not that Daniel will ever admit it in public.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Good to be True

Jack sings.

Let me rephrase that.

Jack _tries_ to sing. He _can't_ but it doesn't stop him. To his credit, he knows he doesn't have the voice for it, so he rarely inflicts his predilection for butchering popular music on the public. But when things are going well, he'll sing in the shower, or along with the radio or just puttering around his place.

How do I know this?

Since we got together, I've been in the somewhat unfortunate position to overhear him. In a way, it's nice since it means I'm so deeply into his life that he doesn't think of me as someone he has to hide his shame, um, _secrets_ from.

On the other hand, it means I have to hear him sing.

No one has ever said being in love was easy.

See, there's another time he likes to sing and I just don't have the heart to try to dissuade him.

He likes to sing to me in bed.

Granted, he usually picks the times when I'm feeling stupid in love and coming down off an orgasmic high to beat all orgasmic highs. Face it, everyone says and does stupid stuff then. 21st century American social mores dictate that there are simply things we don't discuss in polite company and intimate sexual details are high on the list. A long time ago, I figured out it was mainly so no one would be put into the position of confessing to the sappy, syrupy crap said in the afterglow.

Not that I would ever say anything sappy.

Well, not too sappy.

Interestingly enough, "sappy", in the sense of "foolishly sentimental" has been in use since 1670. It came from the Old English word meaning "full of sap" indicating a young tree. What's interesting is that there may have been an intermediate meaning of "wet and sodden", which brings us right back to post-coital couple-bonding.

Well, I thought it was interesting.

But back to Jack.

Last night was one of _those_ nights. As neither of us are exactly teenagers any more, it's gotten easier to hold out, which means, we can each top _and_ bottom in the same night. We just need to have the time. Not to mention the energy (see "teenager, not exactly" comment above). We'd done the 100 yard Jaffa relay to the gate earlier in the day and that was after being on the go for 10 hours. I'm surprised we made it off base. Still, it was, as sex generally is with Jack, phenomenal and, while _those_ details need not be elaborated on here, what happened after needs to be recorded.

We were lying in bed, sheets tangled with our legs, sweat cooling on our skin, exchanging barely there touches and feather light kisses, bodies still humming with sexual release when he started.

_I love you baby_

and if it's quite all right,

I need you baby

to warm the lonely night.

I love you baby,

trust in me and I'll say,

Oh, pretty baby...

Well, you get the idea. Franki Valli, Jack's not. Still, _at the time_, I was in that stupid, just fucked state that turns Jack's voice into a combination of Sinatra's, Nat King Cole's and Beverly Sills'. (Yes, I know, they're all dead. I don't have time for libel suits.) Ordinarily, I would have accepted the sentiment and tried to ignore his inability to carry a tune in a bucket. But this was one chorus too far.

I might have gotten a touch angry.

He called me _**pretty**_! I couldn't believe it! I came this close to dumping him out of bed. Of all the _insulting_ things he has ever said to me, this takes the cake. Men are _not_ pretty, no matter what the general's secretary, Marge in the mess hall and half the motor pool seem to think. (Which reminds me, note to self: find a way to have a talk with Sergeant Wilson - he's not taking 'oblivious Jackson' for an answer. That's always worked so well in the past, too.)

I AM NOT PRETTY! Jack's going to pay for that one. He spent a good ten minutes trying to apologize, but we ended up falling asleep before he finished. Many wonderful things in the universe are pretty, but I'm not. I probably shouldn't get this worked up over it, but I do have my pride.

Wait.

You thought.

Oh.

Really?

Why would I object to him calling me baby? I may have my pride, and I may have just been fucked stupid, but I'm _not_ crazy.


End file.
